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G: I want to touch you right now, in front of everyone. Make you shake while they're clueless.

G: You want my fingers, rose? Right there in front of that single dad, slipping under your skirt, feeling how soaked you are?

I couldn't breathe. My panties were definitely wet now, and my pulse was hammering so loud I was sure someone would hear it. This was insane—standing there, surrounded by colleagues, while these texts were setting my whole body on fire.

Then I felt it. Eyes on me.

I looked up, and Gennady Sokolov was staring. His green eyes were locked on me, sharp and unreadable, like he was peeling back every layer of my soul. For a split second, I felt naked—every dirty thought, every flush of heat, laid bare under that gaze.

And then it hit me.

A cold, electric jolt of realization.

I had never told Mr. G about the school visit. Never mentioned Sokolov. Never said a word about being in a crowd or a "single dad" standing in front of me.

How did he know?

My phone buzzed again, but I couldn't look. My eyes were glued to Gennady as he slipped his phone into his pocket, smooth as silk. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely—a smug, knowing smirk.

No. No way.

Mr. G was Gennady Sokolov.

The man who had been driving me wild with texts, making me blush and ache and lose my damn mind every night, was Anya's father. The untouchable, terrifying, drop-dead gorgeous billionaire standing right in front of me.

OH. MY. GOD.

The room spun. My face went cold, my legs weak. The world was tilting, and I couldn't hear anything over the buzzing in my ears.

"I—I need the bathroom," I choked out, barely audible, and bolted before anyone could stop me. I stumbled into the hallway, desperate for air, for space, for anything to stop this spiral.

"Cassie."

His voice stopped me cold. Low, commanding, and way too familiar. My heart was in my throat as I froze, unable to turn around.

"Turn around," he ordered, sharp and final.

I turned slowly, dread and something darker twisting in my gut. There he was, standing in the empty hallway, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the polished floor. The rest of the group was still in the activity room, their chatter muffled. It was just us.

"What did you figure out?" he asked, stepping closer. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered, my voice shaking.

"Don't lie." He kept coming, closing the distance until my back hit the wall. "You know, don't you?"

I was trapped, staring up at him. His cologne—crisp, expensive—filled my lungs, and I could feel the heat radiating off him. "You're—" I couldn't say it.

"Say it," he commanded, one hand bracing against the wall beside my head, caging me in. "Say it, ???????."

P??????. Rose. The pet name he had used in every filthy text, dripping with possession. It was the final nail in the coffin.

"Mr. G," I whispered, trembling. "You're Mr. G."

His lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. "Good girl. Now you know."

"But you're Anya's dad. You're a billionaire. I'm just a teacher, and we're… we're twenty years apart!" I was babbling now, panic taking over. "This is wrong. This is so wrong."

"Why?" His other hand brushed my cheek, sending a shiver through me. "You're a woman. I'm a man. We've been enjoying ourselves, haven't we?"